


Risk?

by orphan_account



Category: Hip Hop RPF, Music RPF
Genre: Don't Ask, Flirting, M/M, Television, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Who is this?' Kanye had responded. The poorly-texted letters scowled at Frank from the screen of his print-smudged iPhone. He didn't know. Maybe he loved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Risk?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i don't wanna wake up wondering](https://archiveofourown.org/works/496890) by [theviolonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist). 



Kanye looked bleak on Jimmy Kimmel. His demeanor was stiff, his large eyes stuck on a look of impressionability and nervousness. His words were awkward and arrogant; empty and uncomfortable, like a colorful food doused tremendously in tasteless oil.

He wasn't the same man in person that he appeared to be onstage, and oftentimes, that was evident to an unfortunate extent. He wasn't preforming in his interviews. There were no flashing cameras or spotlight. No thumping rhythms or music to be heard anywhere. Only the monotone voice of the interviewer, a comedian whose job it was to make an audience laugh at your expense. There wasn't any shield. No wall of wealth and strength to hide behind.

On the daily, 'Ye had unlimited opportunities to screw a Kardashian girl with wide lips and silken hair; a smooth, plump mouth. She was universally hated and Frank thought he knew why Kanye liked to spend all his love on her. She was forbidden to everyone but himself. The woman was a walking sex-symbol. Withe every step she took, she was hated; with every inch she walked, she was wildly off-limits. All the aesthetics she had were things that Frank couldn't find himself ever caring about.

Kim was 'Ye's trophy wife.

Everything 'Ye did was a publicity stunt. His dreams, his fears, his aspirations, were all an endless call for power. He had fame, he wanted more. He had money, he had talent, he had groupies screaming frantically over him, but he would never stop. Not until he believed that everyone worshiped him.

Frank watched him speak nonsense. In an attempt to dispute it, 'Ye came off as insecure. Damn-near laughable. His power had been threatened and the perpetrators were Jimmy Kimmel, a pair of children, and two crudely-made milkshakes.

It didn't make any sense.

Frank had been labeled 'Ye's 'understudy' by magazines in the past. The first few times it happened, Frank could even chuckle at the bizarreness of such an idea. Swift 'yo's and quiet chin nods; quick, weak handshakes and flitting glances. Once or twice, Frank had tried to get a hold of the rapper, but he'd always ended up fruitless. At a bar, he'd weaved past writhing bodies, pressing ahead into the flashing darkness, an extra glass in his hand, only to see 'Ye smoothly ducking out of sight.

That had happened only once. 'Ye had been different back then. He'd been a little less insecure about his 'power'. A little less self-righteous.

Frank came out, and among the rampant sea of rumors that emerged, Kanye's name was written on one of them. Suddenly, the story turned around. Frank and Kanye were 'lovers'.

Frank had found himself tipping too many glasses that night. Globe Magazine published the article; now many people believed that the rumor was true. Foggy thoughts, a headache, a tightness in Frank's chest that he couldn't stop. Images of 'Ye breathing a soft, embarrassed chuckle ran miles inside his head. Frank remembered stirring awake hours after that. A half-empty bottle was clutched in his hand and his stomach felt sour.

He never liked rumors.

On the television yards away, Kanye was breathing a fake, empty chuckle at one of Kimmel's light-hearted jabs. The sound was gone in a moment, if it was even there to begin with. Whatever smile Kanye had on his lips evaporated immediately. He shrugged halfheartedly and his dark eyes were brimmed with the thoughts he contemplated.

Frank kept his eyes stuck on the screen, his light jacket sliding from his shoulders and crumpling in his hand as he hung it on the coat-hanger of his home.

He had too many ideas drifting through his mind all at once, tangling in each other, making his head hurt and tear with all the fullness. The ideas were nothing grade-a or perfect; mostly the beginnings of future songs or videos.

The cushions of his couch, over time, had grown thin and faded. Frank settled himself down on the edge, and it was uncomfortable. The television before him continued to buzz with the thoughts he didn't feel ready to consider. Kanye's interview. The ideas that stemmed from that were only dull and numb.

Frank unsheathed his smartphone from where it'd been nuzzled in his pocket, haphazardly sticking from it halfway. The letters on the screen seemed to glow brighter than they had before. They looked daunting to him. He'd had to ask another celebrity for 'Ye's number a short time ago, and here it was, looking at him. Days had passed of him ignoring the contact on his screen. He'd scrolled constantly past it, down, lower, to the name of someone else he'd been looking to hear from.

Another glance at the television screen. 'Ye had a rather limp handshake with Kimmel. His expression was terse; stiff. A brief nod, a fake smile. His silver grill flashed in the light before it hid again behind the man's straight lips.

Frank returned his eyes to the phone with little reluctance. The letters were too small to type and the hunk of metal had grown unfathomably light in his hands, steady. He didn't know why this felt so difficult; so strange.

'Let's write a song,' he typed. He didn't think about it; he just wrote what he felt. The things he wanted to say. The arrangements of characters glistened before his face.

They glinted on the lenses of his glasses, reflecting, stinging his eyes with a vague irritation that he'd grown used to. He pressed down on 'send' too soon. His errors eyed him in the face.

A minute passed by quickly. It was like butter; it melted too fast and burned just the same. The television buzzed and Frank lifted himself to his feet to walk the deep exhaustion from his ankles.

His clothes were soon shed onto the ground, dormant beside his bathroom door like snakeskin. Droplets of water trickled over his body; liquid warmth. He felt an hour slink by.

The noise of the shower drowned out the soft tone of the xylophonic jingles and shakes that emanated from his phone. On the counter, past the fogged glass door and yards away, the small device collected humidity.

Frank toweled himself off. The tile floor was unwelcome, but he stepped onto it with heavy feet. The phone was damp in his hands and his finger trembled as he 'slid to unlock'.

'Who is this?' Kanye had responded.

Frank held back a breathy chuckle. Had this been anyone else; had this been the fist time he met the rapper, midday on the tenth floor of a wealthy apartment with Tyler the Creator somewhere else in the room, he might not have been so shy.

He typed his full name into the message box. The words,  _'Christopher Francis Ocean'_  glared back at him. It might have been a little formal, the way he was putting it. Formal and awkward. It insisted on poking threateningly at the back of his mind.

Frank wasn't sure why he was being self-conscious, but he thought it didn't really matter to begin with. Between he and Kanye's texts, auto-correct was the only thing keeping any of it legible. Missing capitalization, incorrect grammar... In both of them, there was a complete misuse of punctuation altogether.

When Frank took a glance through his bedroom window later, the sun was lower in the sky than it had been before. Cloudless and orange; pink. Traces of blue circled and blended with the faded twinkle of oncoming stars.

On his bed, Frank watched as the sky smeared down his window. The air washed over him, cool and fresh, void of the pollution that city air always carried along with it.

In his lap sat a plate of lasagna, half-eaten and unappetizing. Hours had passed since he made it. Though it was a cold brick of ice on his thighs, it was the only warmth that Frank could feel for miles.

His phone sat lonely on the mattress, snug atop the wadded piles of his bedsheet. Frank glanced at it once as its light pulsed steadily.

The breeze from outside made him cold and thoughtful. As his eyes scanned over the message, he could feel a smile bloom over his skin.

_'Sure. :)'_


End file.
